Valentin rubs the bridge of his nose. “I wish I had more to divulge. Really, I do. We are working at all hours, given these developments. I, myself, am performing on three hours of sleep.” He glances over his shoulder. “Have you ever heard of Michel Fourniret?”

Jean-Luc’s Ogre des Ardennes. “The serial killer, right?”

Valentin nods. “Fourniret killed nine people. The inspector working that case blamed himself for not being able to apprehend Fourniret sooner. Over time, this failure became the inspector’s legacy. I have no intention of these murders here becoming mine.” He locks eyes with me. “Do not move. I’ll get someone to take you home.”

I watch him dodge a procurement team taking bags to a white industrial van before he disappears inside the foyer.

No one comes for me after thirty seconds, and I sneak closer to the entrance. The officer who found me must be inside; I don’t recognize anyone else from the station. A crowd of locals gathers beside another van with direct line of sight into the building. Three men flank a well-dressed woman in a suit speaking into a camera, the same woman I saw on my taxi’s seat screen—they’re a news crew. Monsieur Leroux, she says, gesturing behind her, along with other words she speaks too quickly for me to grasp. The ticker flashes to mind, the text regarding a body.

Delphine mentioned that name in her office—Dr. Leroux—and Valentin confirmed it.

Could this body be Angela’s archaeology director?

At the end of the ground floor hallway, a door is cracked open. Feet protrude from a black tarp beside a yellow shopping bag with black cursive writing. The letters look familiar. I make out the word L’Opéra before more policemen enter the hall and the view is blocked.

Valentin emerges alone from another door some fifteen feet removed from the main entry. Something glints in his hand before he pockets it. He looks up, directly at me.

I push through the crowd, ignoring the angry huffs from people, knowing he won’t leave to follow me. If I’m lucky, I’ll find another taxi waiting, go to my bordels tour, then squeeze in a visit to the Paris Opera before they close. Yellow bags with the same black cursive lettering were sitting in Nour’s living room; she’s a costume designer at the opera. And she might know more than anyone thinks.